~ 57 ~

~ 57 ~
THEO

The pictures on the table felt heavier than the glass they were printed on.

I stared at them for so long, the edges started to blur. My mind kept circling the same realization in maddening loops—this wasn’t just coincidence. Not just a case of wrong place, wrong time. There were answers tucked within each frame. Answers I hadn’t been given.

The one I held—God. That one gutted me the most.

A photo of the car. Twisted metal, glass shattered across the pavement like frozen tears. The exact moment Eliana's childhood was cracked wide open. My daughter—whether anyone else wanted to admit it yet or not—had been there, in that wreck, in that moment. And I hadn’t been. I hadn’t known. I hadn’t protected her.

I ran a hand over my jaw, trying to summon logic, but all I found was anger—and something more dangerous. Helplessness.

The other photos... Esme rushing into the hospital. Lucas, holding her in the hallway. Him at her bedside. The way his hand gripped hers. The look in his eyes—like someone who had already made a decision and was living with its consequences.

And here I was, still playing the fool. The quiet, understanding one. The man giving her space. Hoping—what? That one day she'd sit across from me and hand me the truth like it was hers to ration?

I wasn’t stupid. I knew Esme was scared. I knew whatever had happened, it had shaken her to the core. But how long was I supposed to wait in this limbo of almosts and maybes?

I thought I was doing the right thing by being patient. Letting her come to me. Showing her I was steady enough to carry the weight of her truth. But each day that passed, each glimpse of Ana’s eyes—those eyes that looked like mine—I felt the walls closing in.

Was it cowardice? Or restraint?

If I confronted Lucas, I’d be risking everything. Esme. Ana. The quiet little world they’d managed to build—even if it was built on silence. If I acted on impulse now, there was no telling how the pieces would fall. And Eliana... she’d be the one caught in the fallout. Again.

The thought made my stomach clench.

With a sharp exhale, I dropped the photos back on the table, my fingers trembling against the wood.

I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore.

Grabbing my keys, I walked out into the night. The air hit me like clarity. Sharp. Cold. Bracing.

Maybe it was time to stop waiting. Maybe it was time to stop playing the man on the sidelines in his own story.

Because the one thing I knew—beyond doubt, beyond pain—was that I would not lose my daughter again.

Not this time. Not without a fight.

\----

The food was getting cold.

I’d barely touched it since it arrived. The waitress—young, probably college-aged—had placed it gently in front of me a while ago, smiling politely when I nodded in thanks. Now the fries had lost their crunch, the burger sat in its wrapper untouched, and I kept picking at the corner of the tray, more interested in unraveling my thoughts than the meal itself.

Outside the window, the world moved on.

Neon signs buzzed softly in the distance. The street was alive, in that quiet Vegas way that didn’t demand attention but existed in the background like a city-wide hum. This part of town wasn’t built for glitz. No high-rises or showgirls here—just apartment complexes stacked like books, quiet storefronts with peeling paint, and old pickup trucks parked by the curb.

And still, there was something comforting about it. Real. Steady.

A small lemonade stand sat across the street, manned by two kids who looked like they’d begged their parents for one more hour. They were passing plastic cups to a couple of teenagers who paid with crumpled dollar bills. People strolled by—some alone, some hand in hand

And then, out of nowhere, my chest clenched.

A couple passed in front of the restaurant, walking slowly, hands brushing, laughing softly. Something about them pulled at me—not because of who they were, but what they reminded me of.

Me and Esme.

Back when things were simple. Before our love story turned into an unfinished book with dog-eared pages and missing chapters.

I remembered those nights—sneaking out of boardrooms and gala events just to walk with her barefoot on warm sidewalks. Sharing a single takeout box on the hood of my car. Talking about everything and nothing. Kissing like we had time.

Before the fights.
Before she left.
Before Eliana.

I blinked, my throat tightening, and that’s when the bell above the door jingled.

I turned on instinct, half-expecting it to be another stranger walking in from the chill, but my eyes landed on her—and for a beat, the noise outside, the chaos in my chest, everything stilled.

Alice Monroe.

Her name came to me like a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

She looked exactly as she did the day I met her—calm, confident, vibrant. Dressed in loose shorts and a simple white shirt, her hair tossed into a messy bun like she’d done it in a hurry. Yet she wore it with the kind of ease that made it look like a deliberate style choice. The kind of woman who could walk into a room and make it feel like the space had always been meant for her.

I hadn’t seen her since the mall. She’d been a blur of kindness and unexpected warmth that day—rescuing me from a lost moment between aisles and idle thoughts. I hadn’t expected to remember her name, let alone think of her again. But I had. Quietly, and more often than I wanted to admit.

She turned at the counter with a small brown paper bag in hand, her gaze sweeping casually until it landed on me—and stayed.

Her face lit up with that familiar, no-pressure smile, and I found myself sitting straighter, less weighed down. She walked toward me like she’d been planning it all along.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, already pulling out the chair across from me.

I gestured to it, matching her smile. “It’s all yours.”

She sat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she set her bag on the table. “I’m a little surprised to see you here,” she said, tilting her head. “Someone like you… well, this isn’t exactly the kind of place I expected.”

I chuckled, picking up my drink and taking a sip to buy time. “Someone like me?”

She shrugged, eyes teasing. “Well-dressed. Serious face. Heavy thoughts. You look like you belong in a high-rise office, not a street-corner takeout joint.”

I laughed—really laughed—for the first time that day. “Maybe I do. But places like this… I don’t know, they remind me who I am underneath all that.”

“Which is?”

“Just a guy who’s tired of pretending all the time,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Here, no one expects anything. I can just… be.”

She nodded slowly, peeling open her bag. “I get that.”

We fell into an easy rhythm after that—light talk, quiet laughter. She told me this was her neighborhood. Said she’d lived here for three years and wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“It suits you,” I said without thinking.

She arched a brow. “Really? What makes you say that?”

“It’s free,” I said. “There’s no pretense here. Just life happening in real time. That’s how you seemed when we met. Like someone who doesn’t have time to fake it.”

She smiled, her eyes soft. “You make that sound like a compliment.”

“It is.”

A pause settled between us. Not awkward—just… thoughtful.

I leaned back, watching her fingers pull at the straw in her cup. “You know, this is our second meeting.”

“I noticed,” she replied, lips curving. “Are you superstitious?”

“Not usually. But I’m starting to wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something.”

She laughed softly, lifting her drink in a small toast. “I say we let nature do its thing.”

That made me smile. Something uncoiled in my chest. Something easy and light.

For the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about Lucas, or Esme, or photos spread out like accusations on my coffee table. I wasn’t calculating my next move. I was just here—with someone who felt oddly like a beginning I hadn’t planned for.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.